


Que Fácil Me Descontrola

by misterioso



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, F/M, Female Character of Color, Possessive Behavior, Suggestive Themes, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misterioso/pseuds/misterioso
Summary: Nevada's possessive jealousy comes to a head and you rise up to meet it.





	Que Fácil Me Descontrola

**Author's Note:**

> i had almost forgotten how much fun it was to write for characters like nevada. 
> 
> yes, i did write the reader/oc as a woc. yes, i did steal the title from camila cabello's "havana (remix)". 
> 
> also, the translations for all the spanish used can be found at the end of the story. apologies in advance for any mistakes. i know spanish, but mexican spanish is not dominican spanish and i sometimes get lost with the nuances of it all. (also for a while, because i forgot nevada was dominican, i ended up searching for cuban spanish curses/slang bc of raúl. oops.)

The man's face slammed against the tabletop with a sickening crack. The club's patrons were drawn to the sound, all of them curious to see the spectacle. Your heart had hammered its way up from your chest to get stuck in your throat, stopping all your pleas for Nevada's mercy from making themselves heard.

"¿Qué le dijiste, coño?" Nevada shouted, his voice rising above the music's beat, carrying itself to the farthest reaches of the club. 

The man whose face was pressed into the dark shiny wood groaned in agony. His nails scratched at the bar. He wiggled like a trapped animal, trying to get loose, but Nevada had him in a strong grip, hand pressing down the way one would a chicken awaiting the butcher's blade. 

"Did you not hear me? ¡Repite lo que le dijiste!" Nevada pulled the man up and slammed his face back down. 

Crack! The man's nose broke.

"Nevada, por favor, no—"

"¿Que? ¿No quieres que le parte la cara por lo que te llamo?" Nevada gripped the man by his short hairs, taking no great care as he lifted the man to face you. 

Snot mingled with blood dribbled down the man's lips and tears fell from his terror-filled eyes. Eyes that, only moments ago, had been lit up with interest—interest he had wrongly directed your way. Interest that spilled forth from his lips—lips that were now split open from having bitten down with his own teeth from the force of Nevada's first attack. Your stomach roiled with guilt and horror, no words came out, not even a whimper.

"Este pedazo de mierda," Nevada's every word sharp was as deadly as a knife, "is what you're asking me not to do anything to? Even after all the shit that came out of his mouth?"

You turned your gaze from the man to Nevada. There was wild anger in his eyes. A savage need to beat this man senseless, a small price to pay for his transgression. Yet you stared at Nevada, pleading with your eyes, since your words would not reach his ears, to stop this, to end this, right now. 

And it seemed to be enough. 

Nevada scoffed, his anger anger dulled slightly as he looked away.

In that brief moment, you had thought the rage had died out.

But then, a flashover.

Nevada's anger surged. He slammed the man's face against the bar again and again and again until, at last, the man grew limp. He hauled the man up again threw him into the crowd. Onlookers stepped back—they all held drinks and would not spill a drop to help an already dead man to his feet—where the man crumpled into a heap onto the floor.

"Get this shitbag outta here," Nevada said to one of his guards, "and if he tries getting in again, matenlo."

Nevada fixed his coat then turned on his heel, turning away from the sight of the man being hefted up between two guards and escorted out the back door. 

"Vamonos," Nevada said to no one in particular, but you knew he meant it for you. 

You quickly made your way out, giving one parting look at your manager, who only looked on in sympathy. They had been in this business longer than you had been alive; they knew well what the anger from people like Nevada meant. So, you grabbed your coat and followed Nevada out the door. 

It was quieter out in the street, cooler. Normally you would stand still and breathe in the fresh air, but today you were keenly aware of Nevada, a plume of smoke guiding you to where he stood to your right, and the three guards that stood just a few feet away.

You stared at him, unsure of what to say, when he broke the silence.

"There's a restaurant a few blocks down," he said, licking his dry lips. "Comeremos ahí."

He and his guards had already begun to walk in the direction of said restaurant. You were certain it had good food, and that the staff gave him a certain amount of deference when it came to conducting his business in their dining room, but that meant sliding away from whatever it was that had just happened and that you would not put up with.

"Nevada, wait," you called, your voice firm, demanding.

He paused. His guards did, too.

"You better watch what you say to me right now, cariño, I'm not in the mood."

The rage you hadn't felt—the rage that had hidden beneath the fear—surfaced and you snapped, "Well, I'm not in the mood to put up with your bullshit either, and yet here you are, continuing to give it to me and expecting me to take it."

It had been the wrong thing to say. In an instant, he had you pressed against the brick wall of the club, his hand on your neck, not choking, but firm enough to keep you still, his dark presence enough to make you feel smaller than him, your fate entirely in his hands. 

You didn't even tremble. You had seen enough nature documentaries to know that when fight and flight failed, freezing meant survival. So, you froze, the heat of his palms reminding you of the maddening fire that burned inside him, and you stared at your reflection in his glasses—god, you looked terrified—and waited and waited and waited.

He had a menacing grin on his face. "Giving and taking, huh? And here I thought you enjoyed taking everything I gave you."

Your pulse quickened. Memories came back of what he and you two would get up to when you were alone and left with nothing to do but explore each other's bodies. He made you feel downright filthy at times, but you would always ache for more, and fuck if he didn't know it.

"Ay, cariño, mi amor," he cooed, the hand with the cigarette coming up to run along your cheek, "are you scared?"

"No, I'm not scared," you gasped out. 

"Then why is it you look as if you're gonna cry, hm?" He pushed a stray strand of your hair back. 

"Because I—" His grip tightened minutely and you felt a surge of panic at the added pressure. But you didn't raise your hand to grip his, to push him away; you kept your hands pressed up against the wall as you forced yourself to calm, to stretch your head back and focus on your breath coming in and going out, nice and slow, nice and slow. You saw him smirk, and you knew he was pleased that he had taught you so well. 

"Because," you rasped, breathless but fearless, "I just wanna talk to you and you're not letting me. You're not listening."

"Oh? I'm not?" He came further into your space, his nose touching the tip of yours. "I'm sorry, I truly am. But you should know better than to interrupt me in front of others. You challenged my authority, nena. Made people think, hey, maybe this man is just as whipped as any other bitch on the block. Maybe this man isn't as tough as he says he is. Did you know you, mi amor, that that's what you were doing when you asked me to please stop punishing the man that dared try to take what was already mine?"

"Were you that afraid of losing me?" you asked. "I would have never let that pig's hands even touch me. Not even if you weren't there. Never."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes."

"Tell me why, then."

You knew what it was he was asking then. What answer he was looking for. The only one you would ever give, because it was the only truth that lay in your heart of hearts.

"Because I'm yours."

He grinned. "You're mine?"

"Toda tuya." 

He laughed. "Toda miya."

He leaned in, forehead touching yours, his warm breath hot as a dragon's against your lips.

"Then why stop me, princesa?"

There had been rumors about what happened to his previous parejas—other partners he toyed with only to toss aside, as if he were the world's most spoiled child. The latest one, the one before you, was said to have vanished from the face of the earth. At least, according to your prima. Your friend had a friend who swore they saw them at a restaurant in Downtown Chicago, dressed up real nice with a new partner just as fine as them. ("Un hombre de categoría," your friend had said, "not like the porquería we're used to.") And yet another co-worker, who just returned from a vacation in Baja, California, said she swore she saw that same person there, but that they had looked entirely different—in a bad way, looking worse off than they ever had even when they were at their wits end with Nevada.

You weren't afraid of ending up like any one of his previous lovers. In fact, you had known for a long time that while everyone around you worried over your innocence, worried you would be corrupted and twisted and hurt by spending your time and your love on a man like Nevada, whose trade was in sin and in blood, that a small part of you, a part you passed over for the sake of appearances, came alive when he was around. It beat its wild song and made your entire body hum with an energy you would only get from roller coasters that went from zero-to-sixty in a split second. 

So, right now, remembering to step carefully, but being guided by that dark part of you that was called to the surface by the sound of his voice and the warmth of his touch, you put your hands on his hips and dragged him to you. 

"Because I don't need you delivering justice on my behalf," you said, voice soft because his hand had not left your neck. "I—I want to be the one…"

"The one to what, mi amor?" he almost purred. 

"The one to decide what becomes of them."

You could feel his cock twitch against you and god, you almost parted your legs, already throbbing for his touch, already aching for him. He called to you, and you yearned to sing for him.

As the sun burned like fire around you, you were reminded of the rest of the world that still existed beyond you and Nevada: birds flew across the city sky, dark winged shadows against cloudy reds and purples; two children talking excitedly to one another, a woman's voice, their mother's, shouting after them to be careful and not wander too far ahead; the sound of a car door opening; a man loudly talking into his cell phone; music playing from the open window of an apartment.

Then it set, plunging the world into darkness, at the exact moment Nevada leaned down and kissed you. And in that kiss, everything was reduced to the feel of his lips, the pressure of his hands, the gentle rock of his hips. Nothing existed except him. The world became simple.

When he pulled away, spittle trailing between your lips and his, connecting you for one more achingly sweet second, the street lights had turned on, the moon shone down, unobstructed. The world was now aglow in man-made orange and lunar white. 

Nevada's thumb ran along your throat. He was cradling it now, not holding, not choking, and the look you saw—because he took off his glasses, just to look at you, and god you could almost melt into the darkness of his eyes, dragging you in with all the gravity of a black hole—was desire stripped down to its purest essence. 

"Then that's how it'll be, mi reina," he said, as if it was the simplest wish he could grant the one he loved most in the world.

At last, you found yourself smiling. "Gracias, mi rey."

He chuckled again, fond, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

Putting an arm around your shoulders, he pulled you into him, the cologne and smoke smell of him stronger now, and you, grinning, put your hand around his waist. It was time for dinner, after all, and he had a restaurant he wanted to try out with you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations: 
> 
> (title) Que Fácil Me Descontrola — How easy/easily she makes me lose control  
> ¿Qué le dijiste, coño? — What did you say to her, you fuck?  
> ¡Repite lo que le dijiste! — Repeat what you said to her!  
> Nevada, por favor, no— Nevada, please, don't—  
> ¿Que? ¿No quieres que le parte la cara por lo que te llamo? — What? You don't want me to break his face over what he called you?  
> This pedazo de mierda — This piece of shit  
> Matenlo — Kill him  
> Vamonos — Let's go  
> Comeremos ahí — We'll eat there  
> Ay, cariño, mi amor — Oh, sweetie, my love  
> Nena — Baby  
> Porque — Because  
> Toda tuya — All yours  
> Toda miya — All mine  
> Princesa — Princess  
> Parejas — Partners (literally means "couples" but can be used as a gender neutral way of referring to your partner)  
> Prima — Cousin (a female cousin in this case)  
> Un hombre de categoría — A classy man (literally: a man of category/class)  
> Porquería — Filth  
> Mi reina — My queen  
> Gracias, mi rey — Thank you, my king


End file.
